Forever And A Day
by Curse-Never-Dying
Summary: The Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn, and Paarthunax and the Greybeards must prepare her for the return of his brother. But there are two sides to any conflict, and the World-Eater has not been idle. He has summoned his greatest and most loyal servant from times long past, his ancient shadow unbound . . . the Warlord. AU.


Forever And A Day

Being the First Record of the Age of Reclamation

Chapter I: In The Beginning

 _Sundas, 10th of Last Seed, 4E201_

Pale Secunda and ruddy Masser, the sad remains of mighty Lorkhan, hang lazily in the night sky of Tamriel, painting the world in an odd, silver gleam. Moonbeams shine over the mountains, illuminate the freezing mists of the meres, penetrate all but the densest of the coniferous forests, and reflect off the frozen streams and virgin snow. Innumerable bright stars twinkle from the cold, clear sky, and the aurora borealis shines in the North in all its customary splendor. Its green and indigo ribbons of light form a shimmering belt across the darkness, shifting into a beautiful violet at the center.

He would not know. To him, the world is grey and colorless. But it matters not; even in a world with colors, his surroundings are black and white and grey.

The weather is unseasonably cold for the time of year, even in Skyrim, that region so famed for its arctic nature. Though the gently waving plains of Whiterun are stirred by nothing more than the chill winds off the Throat of the World, new snowfall has blanketed the forests and mountains to the north in silence and stillness. Rabbits retreat to their holes, trolls creep back into their dens, and wolves sleep close together for warmth.

He would not know. To him, the freezing gusts are no different than a summer breeze, and animals do not dare to tread here. The winds whistle through the gaps in his armor as he lies there on his stomach, bereft of much of his strength. He is content to let it do so, as he is tired - so very tired that he cannot muster the strength to proceed. It is a bone-deep weariness that only compounds his eternal pain and feeds on his current weakness.

He is disoriented as well, though that is to be expected, and he knows that it will pass. As it is, the world swims whenever he moves his head. He is not accustomed to such discomforts. It has been a very long time since he has felt anything like it, and that makes it not wholly unpleasant.

He savors it while he can, knowing full well that it too will fade, and the numbness will steal over him once more.

Long hours pass before his relentless willpower, his faith, allow him to push his unwilling limbs up and forwards to curl gauntleted fingers around a table-edge with a harsh rasp of metal on stone.

He levers himself to his feet ever so carefully – with the weight of his armor bearing down upon him, even he will have greatest difficulty getting back up if he falls. Joints that have atrophied from disuse click and scream in protest, but he feels nothing.

Ultimately, though, the old stone crumbles beneath the crushing power of his grip, and he loses his balance, lurching wildly to one side. Instinctually, he throws out a hand, desperately grabbing for something, anything, to halt his fall, but to no avail.

Snow puffs into the air, and then drifts lazily back down to settle on his armor as he falls with a bone-jarring crash.

After a brief respite, he tries to force his armored body once again forward, but this time he nearly fell on his face. But he could not stop. Something was calling him, whispering to him, setting his body aflame, and it could not be denied. It was his duty, his conscience cried, his honor to pursue the call. Again and again he strove to rise and move forward, but to no avail. Long years of imprisonment had taken their toll on him, sapped him of his strength, and his escape had very nearly destroyed him.

His limbs failed him completely then, and he allowed himself to fall backwards into the snowdrifts that carpeted the floor.

The moons shone down from icicle-encrusted holes in the roof, throwing the inside into sharp relief.

Grey stone surrounded him; crumbling, and webbed with cracks as wide as his forearm. Braziers, their fires long since gone cold, line the old walls. The floor, where it was not covered with snow, was cold earth. Flagstones poked out here and there amongst the snowdrifts and broken pottery that lay strewn about.

Behind him is what once was a grand statue, now fall into sad disarray. The last remnants of a tattered blue-silver banner twirl silently in the breeze.

He watches the threads play in the wind for a long time.

A particularly fierce gust finally rips the hanging from where it clings to the wall. It spirals down and down, finally falling about his broad shoulders like a cloak.

Appropriate.

He no longer recognizes this place, and it is unbearably sad. Memories he thought long gone stir in his mind, reminding him of what once was.

The snow moves in to form a white veil between him and the rest of the world as a blizzard comes screaming down from the far North. But he does not feel the cold of the snow, the biting chill of the wind.

He has only his Faith, but that is enough. The Time is nigh, and the Call is there, however faint.

He weathered the storm like a pillar of stone, obdurate and strong, and let the wind swirl around him like a cloak through the wee hours of the night.

He would endure.

* * *

Dawn came and bought an end to the storm and he slowly stands, shaking off the snow, and watches the rising of the sun. Over the ruined walls a bloody sun climbs the horizon, tinting the drifting clouds pink and turning the dark sky into a light blue.

The light bothers him, but not overly much. It is simply the reaction of a man unused to bright light. He has spent a long time in the dark; a very, very long time.

His heavy boots crunch upon the snow, breaking through the icy shell and into the powdery snow below as he goes to stand at the entrance. There he pauses, leaning his weight against the side of the doorway, one armored hand clutching the lintel.

It is now painfully clear to him that the ravages of time are not confined solely to the building he spent the night in, for he is surrounded by ruins.

The walls are pitted and forlorn, no longer the bastions of protection and glory that they were. Partially destroyed crenellations stand silently atop them, like the silent guardians of a bygone era.

 _Forever These Walls Shall Stand._

Mighty arches dot the landscape, though their purpose is no longer clear; the crumbling buildings are concentrated around them. Some are familiar to him; others, newer, are not.

 _May Enemies See Her Majesty._

For a moment his stance becomes less certain, more unsure. His countenance tightens behind his greathelm.

It was the proper time; this they had assured him, and they would keep their bargain with him, or so he judged. They had released him and granted him safe passage in exchange for favors. But they had neglected to tell him of the state of things. Or how long it had been.

It was in their nature, he supposed, to do so. Nothing amused them more than human suffering, and seeing these ruins certainly stirred up a dulled feeling of shame deep within him. To see what had been the crown jewel of the Realm brought so low . . .

But hope remains. Off to his right, a massive stone door stands, sheathed in good Nordic steel, as bright and strong as the day it was made.

It was there that he made his way, plowing through the waist-high snow as though it wasn't even present.

The door is barred and locked from the outside, but he is intimately familiar with such things, knows how to open each and every one of those doors. He run his hand down the lock, manipulating a glyph here, a picture there, until the door swings open, and a gaping entrance yawns towards him. Air rushes past him – he imagines it must be foul.

The darkness holds no fears for him, especially not here. Here, he could close his eyes and make his way forwards blind, so familiar is it.

There is motion in the shadows; a chittering and clacking. He slowly turns towards the noise, but nothing presents itself – no-one dares to attack him.

He makes it down several more flights of stairs before the voice booms out in the still air. It is horribly familiar, yet dreadfully altered, just as he knows his own would be if he ever spoke.

"Who comes to my dark kingdom?" it demands, echoes bouncing off the walls. "Be warned: cowardly men will find no mercy here."

He does not answer. He is unsure if his brother would even recognize him, or how he would be received if he did. His sins are very great.

"You do not answer. . . Must I use this guttural language of yours?"

He is already at the heart of the maze, throwing open the doors to the great chamber, letting them crash against the walls.

A tall figure, dust-colored and terrible, stands at the stairs at the far end of the room. A coffin, shattered by some tremendous force, lay behind him. Lightning plays and crackles about the cadaverous form.

His brother whirls at the sound, robes fluttering madly about him, a wasted arm pointing at him.

He sucks in a breath, the air crackling in his papery lungs.

"No, you need not," he grinds out, voice harsh and hoarse and rusty from disuse.

There is silence, complete, perfect, and absolute. It stretches on for a long time – or he supposed it might be a long time to others. Eternity gave one a rather different outlook on such things.

"You." The reply is little more than a whisper. "You? Last and mightiest of the Thirteen?"

"I."

Now the words are tinged with bitterness, and a growing anger, but he finds he cannot fault his brother for it.

"Why!" His brother demands, orbs of electricity crackling dangerously in his hands. "Why, brother? Why you were not there when our Lord fell? Why you were not there to lead us in His Absence, to grind the flames of rebellion to nothing beneath your boot? Why did you _abandon_ us to our doom?"

"I was . . . unable to aid you. Bound away behind rock and lock and metal and time, yes. But He has promised us eternal life, and His word cannot be overruled."

His brother spits at him – no fluid spatters him, of course, but he jerks back at the gesture all the same, boots grinding on the floor with the motion.

"You would still claim to be of the faith? You, who stood by as He fell and did _nothing_? Who sacrificed nothing as the rest of us did?"

He gives no warning to his brother before lashing out, the old hurt and terrible, impotent rage welling up again, as fresh and painful as the day he first felt it. It is the only thing left that can truly wound him.

"How," he roars, grabbing his lesser brother by the throat, " _dare_ you! You have no idea what I gave up that day. None at all. I gave my _everything_ to try to fight off the Fallen. I paid a price so grievous that _you_ ," continues, punctuating every other word by slamming his brother into the unyielding stone of the wall, "can scarcely imagine it."

He feels fragile bones give on the last blow. His brother is clawing futile at the hands wrapped around his boney throat.

He gives a snarl of disgust and cast his brother away from him, fury fading. These rare spurts of emotions rarely last long before giving way to the numbness once more.

His brother lands in the broken coffin, shattering it even further with his fall.

"Remember your place."

He waits until his brother rises from the rubble, head at an odd angle. He too appears to have succumbed to the numbness once more.

"You fell," his brother murmured, the words laced with disbelief. "You, the strongest of us all. They even took your face."

"Aye, though it can be reclaimed." He cannot deny it. To bear his failure openly shall be some penance, though hardly proportional to the magnitude of his failure.

"How? How did those impertinent upstarts ever manage it? We were so strong, all of us, basking in the Lord's power."

"I was betrayed."

The words were cold and final.

His brother balls his spindly hands.

"Whom? Otar? He always coveted your position. Should I get my hands upon him - "

"No." His words are slow, reluctant. He does not know how his brother will react to this betrayal. "The Overlord."

His brother lets out a long, slow hiss.

"Impossible. You speak blasphemy," his brother accuses, though there is no heat in his voice.

"To punish the blasphemer and the heretic is my duty, brother. I know such things when I hear them, and to speak the truth is not blasphemy. But that is not the worst of it."

"Worse? There is something worse than knowing one of the Divine betrayed the Lord?"

"He taught the Fallen the Words."

There is no immediate response, but he can tell his brother is furious beyond measure. He has always been the magician among them, the hoarder of knowledge, and to hear that the sacred secrets have been spilled to the uninitiated is no doubt anathema to him.

Then a shrill scream splits the air, and chunks of masonry begin to fly.

He needs to head off this passion, needs to help his brother return to the numbness that allows more rational thought. There is no time for past regrets and grievances. He alone has been told of his Lord's impending return; his brothers must know.

"Take heart, brother," he rumbles, voice echoing sepulchrally around the chamber. "The Lord was too strong for the Fallen to hope to destroy, try as they might. His ascension is inevitable; his return, certain."

His brother hesitates, turns glowing eyes in his direction once more, and the arcane energies burning in his hands flicker and die.

"He wakes?" his brother asks reverently. "After all these years, his return is finally at hand?"

"Do you doubt?"

"No – never! But how do you know?"

"I have always been his most favored," he reminds him. "But while I was imprisoned, curious eyes turned towards me, and whispers found their way into my ears. In exchange for services rendered, they agreed to set me free at the proper time."

"Whispers," his brother says, voice flat. "Whisperers in the dark. You know that is forbidden to us, brother, after the Betrayer. Were our Lord to find out - "

"He will find out," he interrupts him. "I shall tell Him myself, and submit myself to his judgement. And, after I have done His Will, I shall serve whatever punishment he deems fits. Until that time, I shall serve Him through whatever means necessary – even if those means demand my Unmaking. For now, know only that I know the time and place of His Return."

His brother shook his head, staff clinking against the metal of his mask.

"Do you seek to finish that which you could not? Are you to seek him out once more?"

"Yes. He calls to me, brother, and I must answer. But you were near at hand when I was freed, and so I sought you out. The others of our order – most especially my good-father - must gather here once more whilst I listen and obey. He has some task for me, or I know not our Lord. Will you not gather them for me, Morokei?"

"You are his undying Word. So it shall be."

* * *

 _So begins Forever And A Day. This is a (I hope) much improved rewrite of Age of Aberration._

 _Fair warning: this isn't exactly going to be your standard Skyrim fanfic. It's an AU. It's going to be bloody, dark, filled with betrayal, and rather sad. The Dragonborn isn't going to be a standard OC, but rather a familiar character from the game. And (s)he is going to be dealing (read: fighting) with the main character, who was introduced in this chapter._

 _Lastly, the Elder Scrolls lore is incredibly complex; perhaps the most complex of any fandom I've yet written for. I cannot hope to do it justice, which is a great part of why I'm classifying this as an AU. Bits will be picked and chosen from both lore and my own personal interpretation._


End file.
